ELIZA
I take another sip from my tumbler as I drive down the vibrant, tree-lined street to Grayson’s house, the sugary concoction lighting up my taste buds.
“Coffee milk,” Grayson called it, when he’d mixed it up for me this morning before I left for my swim. According to him, it’s a Rhode Island staple, and thus a required part of my “living-in-Rhode-Island initiation”—a process which he’s deemed “essential” and put himself in charge of.
It tastes like coffee ice cream, and I’m hoping it comes with the same sugar rush. After last night’s homecoming and a thirty-minute sunrise swim, my body needs all the energy it can get.
Not my brain, though. I’ve never had a Red Bull, but I imagine the happy buzz lighting up all four lobes is equivalent to at least three cans.
I thought I was happy when I treated myself to a latte, a new season of my favorite show, or a Friday night date with Kyle.
But that feeling was a whisper compared to this.
My phone rings again, and I sigh. My mom texted me again while I was out swimming, but I was waiting to unpack that giant can of worms until I got back home. At this point, though, what difference does three minutes make?
Fortifying myself with another sugary gulp, I hit the green button, and her voice blares through the car’s speakers.
“Eliza Bethany Attleburn. You’ve been deliberately ignoring me.” Her greeting is steady and controlled, but the middle-name-drop shows her hand.
She’s a volcano, about to erupt.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I say calmly. “I was busy last night and this morning.”
“Busy with what?” There’s a snap in her tone now. “Daydreaming? Throwing your life away?” I’d tell her she’s being overdramatic, but that would only rile her further, and I don’t want to ruin how good I feel with a Category Five argument.
Not that she cares.
“Suzanne told me about your apparent decision to just skip an interview Monday.”
“I notified the hiring team the day before—”
“And then, you proceeded to ignore every single one of Suzanne’s emails and calls.” She says it like she’s accusing me of a felony.
“Mom, I—”
“No,” she states, interrupting me again. “There is no excuse for this level of negligence, and I will not allow you to continue this asinine self-destruction today.”
I’m twenty-six and independent. She no longer allows me to do anything. But I’m too caught up on deciphering her meaning to address that verb usage. “What’s today?” I ask.
“Your interview with the consulting agency.”
Everything within me freezes. Consulting agency? Interview? I’d submitted cover letters and my resume to several firms and agencies, but I haven’t accepted any other interviews. Had Suzanne agreed to it for me? Can she even do that?
“Wow, Eliza.” Mom’s bitter disappointment fills the silence. “You really haven’t listened to a single one of Suzanne’s voicemails.”
No, I haven’t. And I’ve been too busy all week to inform her I was done with her services. “Mom, I have a new job. I’ve already accepted the offer,” I blurt.
“What job is this?”
“Marketing Director for Gold’s. The vineyard, the oyster farm—everything.”
On a dime, her tone shifts. “Why would you do something like that?”
Before, she was angry. Now she sounds ready to give me a hug and discuss my sanity.
“Like what?” I ask, just to hear her say it.
“Limit yourself like that,” she replies, stunned. “You’re better than that. Capable of more than that.”
“I’m also capable of slowing down. Lowering my cortisol. Making life a little more enjoyable.” My car bumbles into Grayson’s driveway. “Besides, it’s Director of Marketing, Mom. I report directly to the CEO. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“In a small town, in the middle of nowhere.”
My blood heats at how flippantly she disregards Gold’s. Grayson’s operation alone is more impressive than half the high-rise occupants in the city—never mind Anson’s growing business.
“Have you signed a contract?” she asks.
Shutting the car off, I answer, “It’s coming today.”
“So, no.”
I already know where she’s going with this. “It’s already in writing that I’m accepting this offer.”
“Doesn’t matter. You don’t have that job, Eliza. It could fall through.” There’s a point-zero-one percent chance of that happening. Anson isn’t the type to go back on his word. “And this interview could be the one. You’re going.”
I shake my head, chewing my lip. “No.”
“Your career and life aside, do you know how much we pay Suzanne and how hard she works to find opportunities as good as this?”
“I never asked you to hire Suzanne.”
“Eliza, we’ve invested so much in you,” she emphasizes, and for the first time in this conversation, her words get to me, planting a little seed of guilt.
“And you just want to—to—throw it all away because you’re on a nice little vacation and you want it to last?
I don’t want to see you make a mistake you’ll regret. ”
You’re asking too much, I want to say. But that kernel of guilt is beginning to create fissures in my obstinance.
My parents have invested a lot in me—building bridges, finding opportunities, guiding me through achievements since I was a child.
No matter how tough or stubborn they are, how selfish their motivations were, or how painfully misguided this phone call is, I can’t overlook the good they’ve done for me.
She must sense my weakening resolve, because she says, “The interview is virtual, five hours from now. There’s no reason you can’t make it. Just go. Give it a chance.”
My head tilts onto the backrest, and I stare at the gray ceiling of my car. She isn’t asking me to drop everything and drive to Boston. A virtual meeting will only eat thirty minutes of my day, and because I don’t actually want this job, I won’t have to spend any time preparing or stressing out.
If anything, going to this interview and then telling her it isn’t the right fit might bring her a little closer to acceptance.
“Fine,” I say.
Then I chug the rest of the coffee milk and try to shake the feeling that I’ve just placed myself back on a trail in bear-infested woods.